Unspoken Again
by jessspider
Summary: Non-Canon, possibly AU  REPOST - previously titled 'Unspoken' . Molly has worked with Sherlock now for 3years. John&Sherlock trying to find buried treasure. Exploring the unexplored between Molly/Sher.Angst,Drama,Romance,?adventure,several POVs
1. The Anomaly

_**Hi Guys - for some reason it seems that FF net somehow lost my first story. So while they deal with that, I'm reposting. I really don't know where it went. But did have chapter three up a while ago, just seems to have been lost in the glitchy ether. Previously titled 'Unspoken'. **_

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><p><em><strong>Authors notes:<strong> Hi guys. I actually truly hate my writing at the moment because I have not written anything in nearly 3 years. It's very rusty. And to start with a Sherlock/Molly fic, is not the way to go. Especially, as I feel it is the hardest type of fanfic to write at the moment. I have seen all of you out there writing and to be even remotely as ingenious or as excellent as you all are, with your writing, would be a dream. I know my characterisations are probably highly likely off._

_This is a non-canon (for the moment at least), possible alternate-universe, piece, I started writing a few days ago. Plot is still as yet unclear for me, but I think I wanted to explore Sherlock and Molly a little bit._

_Its difficult to place a genre – it is an angsty, romantic –ish, subtle humour, some drama, a lot of point of view scenes if you will from each character._

_**Disclaimer**: I own none of the characters, and I wish, that Sherlock and Molly were a reality._

_Without further adue – I hope that you enjoy. I apologise, for jumping on the bandwagon – I think I caught the one with the wheel falling off it – so I may have a while yet, before my journey into these two is perfect or complete. Just really wanted to test the waters and to have my aching heart relieved._

_Positive criticisms welcome – any mistakes, please let me know._

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><p>'Yes,' Sherlock intoned. 'Quite.'<p>

He briefly glanced at John through the mirror on display at the restaurant. Picking up his grey-bluish scarf, he secured it around his neck with the usual knot and in one sweep slid both arms into his coat, before turning up the collar.

John remarked on Sherlock momentarily. He was a good-looking man. A clueless-ly good-looking man. Truth be known, he probably actually did know that he was quite handsome, and that he could use that to his advantage when he wanted to, but, John thought to himself, so entrenched in the inner workings of Sherlock's mind was Sherlock, that he most likely relegated the significance of such things to the back of it.

'So to the mortuary?' John asked in confirmation.

'There's really no question about it.' Sherlock replied, his ice-grey eyes glanced momentarily at John before looking toward the door. 'Onwards John,' he directed, as the doctor quickly gathered his coat, before Sherlock left him to his own at the Coriander Leaf.

Walking swiftly through the door with Sherlock, John wondered about the case at hand. It was nearly over, he could feel it, but there was something about the current case to leave Sherlock ill at ease. Not that he usually was at ease, and not that it was unusual really for his consulting-detective flatmate friend not to remain restless towards the end of an investigation, but one could feel the air thick with that anticipation of something important. Whatever it was Sherlock was hoping to find on this dead body, would be the final confirming clue in the puzzle that would lead them to the location of the buried treasure. Literally.

A strange thought crossed his mind, of Sherlock being Captain of a pirate's ship and John being his second mate. He sniffed away at his randomly concocted brain imagery, and chuckled to himself.

'What?' Sherlock noticed from the corner of his eye, as he cried out, 'Taxi!' from curb. Hands in pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the frosty wind, he turned to John, and then turned again as a black cab pulled in towards them. Opening the door, he stepped in first, John quickly after.

It was most definitely a chilly night in London and the cab was a momentary welcome relief.

'Nothing,' John replied, a slight smile still playing upon his face.

'Hmm.' Sherlock allowed it. 'St. Bartholomew's hospital please driver.'

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><p>21.30<p>

St. Bartholomew's

Pathology Lab

Molly was busying herself with the slice of tissue specimen upon the glass slide, when a 'meow' alerted her to an incoming text. She knew who it was of course, as she pre-programmed texts from the man to sound out with a inconsequential 'meow'. Indeed, the choice was deliberate. Molly, one late night, so long ago, had decided that her way of dealing with her feelings for Sherlock, was to let her phone sound out with a mini little 'meow' when he texted. In her mind, it gave her some sort of reverse psychological power to deal with the dominant manner with which he handled her on most occasions.

He was nothing but a curious cat, she would tell herself. A cat that used people to get what they wanted. A cat that feigned interest, pretended affection and whose play was merely a means to an end.

Having Sherlock 'meow', on her phone, allowed her a little of a sense of control in coming to terms with the fact that he was just a needy little thing, that only meowed when he wanted something. It was in effect to remind her of why he ever spoke to her.

If Sherlock ever knew that of course, he would destroy her logic in one swing of his intellectual sword. Molly liked cats really. She liked Sherlock. She could not really kid herself. In truth, sometimes, that sound, warmed the cockles of her heart, because although it was meant as warning, that the cat was coming to play, she liked that the cat was coming to play.

It brightened up her days and nights at the morgue. Just being able to cast a glance upon his fine porcelain face. Dark locks of hair framing his beautiful bone structure. She could appreciate beauty and intelligence when she saw it. And being able to see his mind at work, of course. Of course.

Before the advent of John Watson, Molly also saw the worst of Sherloc, when his eyes were hollowed out from days of being on a case. On those days, Molly just wanted to take care of him.

_Molly, we're on our way to see you. Any chance you could have the body of Jason Earl ready? SH_

She read the message there on the screen. Molly frowned. She was in the middle of a tissue slice.

'You're not really on your way to see me,' she told the echoic room of equipment. She put her phone on the bench next to the microscope and placed the slide back onto the deck. She sighed, holding her neck and rubbing at the knot that seemed to have taken permanent residence there. She stood up from her stool and stretched more fully.

Molly flashed back to all the times that Sherlock had texted mild variants of much the same thing over the time she had known him. Nearly 3 years now. Her school girl crush, whatever it was, she cared not to name it anymore, was worsening. Not only was it worsening, it was doing that slow-over-time self-destructive thing. Molly knew that it was not good for her health.

Waiting for the days when he would come by, for the momentary glances that he gave her way, even though she knew it was nothing more than the superficial, she had learnt to berate herself, she could not help but get excited when he was around, and hate herself when he left.

The constant high and low of the emotional turmoil it set in her, was distracting. There could be weeks where he was not in contact, and then a string of days, sometimes hours where he would be in contact. And moments when he would sit at her bench, staring down the microscope, and she could be as close as a centimetre away from him hovering at his side.

Her heart was now potentially at risk of some sort of fatal arrhythmia at the constant expectation. It was not going to do, to continue to place the delicate life-supplying organ at risk in such a way.

The unfortunate thing for Molly was that she could not yet see the horizon through the field of trees. She desperately wanted out. And yet, she constantly acceded to his every wish. Because maybe she loved him, deep down. Admitting to that would be dangerous. Admitting to it, would open up a box of problems. So for now, she just took what she got from Sherlock, nothing more than his abrupt appearance and disappearance, with she hoped, his being nonethewiser of her real feelings as she tried to figure out how to try to detangle herself from the mess she clearly put herself in, working the irresistible man.

_What's that phrase they use, _she thought to herself.

'Oh yes, treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen?' she spoke again to the quiet lab. If the objects in that room could talk, they would tell any listener of how often Molly would ramble on to herself, consoling and trying to figure out how to 'get over it' after every Sherlock visit, text, moment, you name it, she had probably discussed it with herself and the lonely lab.

'But Sherlock doesn't even like me that way to keep me keen.' She smirked at herself. 'Christ, Molly, shut up.' She scolded herself. 'He is just…mean…because he is, isn't he?'

Picking up the phone, she texted back whilst talking out loud to remind herself of who she was and what her value was. 'I'm not keen!' she told the lab emphatically.

Molly hit the send button soon after her composition. Sadly, she realised only too late, that she had sent her exact thoughts instead of her intended reply.

_I'm not keen! – MH_

'Oh shit!' she recoiled, hands covering her mouth. 'I did not just send that, tell me I did not just send that!' she looked around room. No, there was no response as per usual from the laboratory paraphernalia. _'_Shit!'

_Meow, _the phone sounded in her hand. 'Yes, he texts fast.' Molly did not want to look at her phone. 'Stupid Freudian slip, why do I keep doing that where it concerns Sherlock? One day I'm going to make a really stupid fool of myself.'

She tried to gather her thoughts again, and steadied her hands. She read the message.

_Keen? Molly, this is not the time to loose interest. –SH_

She laughed at the screen. Molly losing interest was an interesting concept. If she could only really lose interest indeed. How can anyone lose interest in Sherlock Holmes. She knew that he was referring of course to the body and the case. She was about to hash out a reply when the phone in her hand meowed again.

That certainly freaked her out. She thought for a moment that the ringtone really was stupid and was not working at all.

_Molly, we stand to find the buried treasure with your help. I'm sure your earlier text was a mere slip. We should be with you in 5 minutes – SH_

'Argh? Sherlock Holmes!' she screamed, 'Don't presume to tell me about me!' And slapped her phone down on the counter. 'Why do I always give in, I'm going to give in now, I know it. Wait, what was that about buried treasure?'

She pondered her life again. Five minutes, now four minutes, Molly, set upon a reply she was sure Sherlock would not carry out and then went towards the mortuary to bring out the body.

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><p>Sherlock for all his deducing, deduced that Molly was clearly not in the mood to have them visit her. He should not have been surprised to see a text from her saying that she was not keen, as for the longest time since he had known Molly, she always seemed keen. Keen that is, to help him on her investigations when he needed the use of the lab, or to see the cadaver collection there. At least, as far as his astute mind could surmise from his perusal of her each time they came in contact.<p>

It was a little unlike Molly however to text what she had. His calculating mind concluded that this was not one of those menstrual cycle matters. It was anomalous though in nature, given the trend she had so been setting. Every so often, Molly would be anomalous and he derailed him for 0.5 seconds before he could continue upon whatever he was doing.

For as long as Sherlock had known Molly, she was nothing if not keen. Her help to him was always invaluable, and without her, his overtime neuronal firing would have exploded in unsolved mysteries from restricted access. In short, he would have had to smoke or look for dangerous mind numbing intoxicants elsewhere.

No, Molly was always keen to help him. In fact, there were few around him who were.

He handled this text reply of hers the way only Sherlock knew how, in his way.

After two texts, he finally received one from her.

_Dinner, for the trouble – MH_

That was anomalous indeed. At this point in the text banter that often ensued when Sherlock was on his way to Barts, she would often say, 'I'll be waiting' or 'Sure, it'll be ready when you arrive.'

This text read trouble all over it. Trouble that she was creating for him, for resisting it seems, their visit. Trouble that they seem to be inflicting upon her for visiting. Trouble, for asking for dinner. Dinner, dinner, dinner, he thought to himself. Molly had likely not had any dinner, or she was asking that he bring dinner or take her to dinner. Women. They rarely made complete sense to Sherlock. He needed facts. Physical parameters, indicators, measurements, dates, times, months, facial expression, context, he needed to read the pattern, before he could conclude upon a string of words.

Sherlock was acutely aware of John's staring from his peripheral vision.

'Problem, Sherlock?' John quipped.

A glazed look momentarily passed over those ice-grey eyes before refocusing back to his phone at hand.

'I believe that Molly would like dinner.'

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><p>(not sure how this is going to go, but happy to let my fingers do the typing for now)<p> 


	2. The Apology

John paid the cab driver quickly and ran after disappearing figure in the swathing shape-fitting coat through St. Batholomew's rear entrance into the mortuary. John remarked to himself just how much faster Sherlock's pace seemed now that they had finally arrived. The consulting detective said nothing further after the text he had received from Molly, but John had seen the infinitesimal flicker of something in his eyes, indeed, almost as though a fly had been found in his ointment or the nectar had disappeared from the flower he was hunting.

His matter-of-fact tone in regards to Molly's apparent need for dinner, seemed almost 'too' matter-of-fact. Granted, Sherlock always seemed to put upon the poor girl at the most inhumane of hours, but it felt to John as though something more was frustrating his Captain ever since he had texted her way to inform of their imminent arrival.

Sherlock was nothing if not a mystery himself, but John suspected that Molly was finally fighting back, and that Sherlock did not know what to make of it or that perhaps some other tactic was required to maintain her favours which would not involve losing the door she held open for him, forever.

When John finally caught up with Sherlock, he could see his friend holding a snickers bar in one hand and packet of crisps in the other. Clearly a pit-stop at the vending machine had occurred since arrival.

He was unclear as to Sherlock's intentions where the chocolate snack and crisps were concerned, but John thought that if it was meant as a truce with Molly, he could not necessarily guarantee the effectiveness of such a ploy. Granted Sherlock was a genius, and there could be no doubt of his success and the results he produced, but John was weary.

Would this be one of those incredibly rare times that Sherlock would apologise and be a gentleman? Since their partnership, John was not able to recall a moment where he found Sherlock to be the apologetic sort.

'Hmph.' He thought to himself. John was doubtful. He was seriously thinking of betting with himself. How something like that could be done he didn't know, but he began to calculate odds.

_Dr Watson, should Sherlock apologise, we help Sherlock to ensure Molly is taken to dinner. Okay Dr. Watson, and if Sherlock doesn't not apologise? Well Dr. Watson, we still have no other option but to help our Captain to take Molly out to dinner. _John shook his head. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he momentarily sighed.

Reigning himself back to the matter at hand, he walked up to stand in support beside Sherlock who himself standing poised at the door leading to Molly and Mr. Earl.

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><p>Sherlock had already observed Molly through the little window view of the door. She was noting a few things down on her clipboard as she stood in front of zip-lock bag containing Mr. Earl's remains. She was intently focused on something on her clipboard. She had her hair in disarray, her white lab coat obviously opened, pockets filled with paper and mobile phone it seemed, hung on her mildly stooped posture. She was tired, it was clear, but her mind was ever at work from the focus she seemed to be directing at her scribbling.<p>

Sherlock was mildly dismayed at himself. How would he ever be able to explain to the lay person how hard it was to switch off this over-active mind of his. How he wished at times, others were driven to even half as much as he was. He could not help the fact that when he caught the bug of interest, there was no stopping the flu of chaos that inevitably followed. He was incomplete until the case was solved. He had no intention of harming anyone in trying to achieve the results he wanted. But sometimes, he did. Sometimes, special persons like Mrs. Hudson, could be kidnapped, or Watson could be shot, and sometimes he stepped on Molly, when he didn't mean to.

Sherlock could not offer reasons to himself as to why this mattered, but she mattered. She mattered enough not to want to create a rift in their working relationship at least.

He would not admit that he liked seeing her in the lab, and sometimes would sabotage her plans just so that he had an excuse to see her under the pretence of a case. It was lonely being Sherlock, and Molly, with all her innocence of mind, was somewhat soothing for him. John was the same way. Except that he often had to lead with John.

With Molly, he just was.

Sherlock needed to do something.

He stared at John.

John nodded.

Sherlock opened the door into the mortuary. John held back a few steps to allow Sherlock to say the necessary.

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><p>'Molly,' Sherlock spoke clearly.<p>

Molly jumped slightly when she heard his voice, turning towards him as he entered the room.

'Sherlock,' she breathed his name, unable to help it.

She noticed the controlled, slightly solemn look on his face. Somewhat unlike Sherlock she noted to herself.

Moments before he had entered, she had been standing there, berating herself whilst hovered over her clipboard, next to the dead body of Mr. Earl. She was annoyed at her stupid text suggestion of dinner. Her absence of mind ever since he had texted her, resulted in the folly of dinner as a suggestion for all the trouble they were causing her. She had been a little angry, and it was just her having a little text rant if anything. Molly knew Sherlock would never deliver on such a suggestion. She was at that moment in time actually quite hungry, and in need of dinner. But Molly, of course, did not actually mean dinner in that sense and was worried that her text of dinner, would be so misconstrued to mean that she wanted dinner, with him, dinner with Sherlock. In her dreams, she did, but she was sure that her second slip that evening was not intended that way. _She was, wasn't she? _

She had started scribbling frustrating circles upon the paper clipped to her clipboard. Circles grew from one small perfect circle, round and round, growing bigger until it depicted a mini tornado on the document. Fate would have it, that he entered just as she sighed, startling her when he uttered her name.

She felt almost caught out, in her private moment.

There was a long silence that passed between them. Possibly only two seconds long in reality, but lifetimes could be recalled in such moments.

Molly sensed Sherlock's perusal of her. But she also sensed a shift in him.

'Molly,' he stepped took another step forward, a mere half a metre between them now. His beautiful piercing eyes meaningfully and deeply directed towards hers. If she was not so uncertain of her own perceptions where Sherlock was concerned, she could have sworn she saw a look of genuine apology cross his features.

Her doubts were blown away, when he uttered his next words upon those perfect lips of his. Molly was trying to maintain composure. She was angry wasn't she? But his height, his presence, took away hers.

'I would like to sincerely apologise for putting upon you at this hour Molly.' He paused briefly, not one breaking eye contact, 'I promise, I will make this up to you Molly.'

Sherlock did seem genuinely sorry.

'Sher-,' she began unsuccessfully, stumbling. He didn't give her the chance to continue.

In his silky deep voice, he had her mesmerised, eyes still locked with hers.

'Molly. I know, that you are quite busy at with a multitude of other matters. I wanted you to know, that without your help, half the cases I have entertained in the last three years since you have been here, might not have come to fruition. I have no doubt, that what I shall discover this evening shall give me the answers I require and thus a successful result. Your help on this as on every occasion, is never unimportant to me. And in this case, shall not be unrewarded.'

He continued to stare at her. There was such a veracity of his focused eyes upon on her face and in his words that the room seemed almost alive with static.

If Molly could count every individual hair of hers on end in that second, she was certain it would probably never end. She had just been given goose bumps, possibly for the first time, by the one and only Sherlock Holmes who never ever apologised. It seemed as though she had just been thanked by the man too.

Her breath was as if stillness in a barren land. Caught in her throat she had no idea how to breathe again. He was still looking at her. Her lack of response it seemed prompted more words.

'Molly, I know this does not make up for it this evening, but, if in case this may help,' he spoke quietly, highly unlike Sherlock, and left her with the snacks in her hand. 'I'll unzip the bag and take over from here.'

He waited for her to respond.

A brief thought crossed Molly's mind about Sherlock's calculating mind and ability to pull a multitude of strings like a puppeteer, but the girl inside of her, discarded it quickly.

He was still waiting for her to respond before he began. Was he trying to be nice? His behaviour was so unlike him that it was starting to unnerve her.

Recovering quickly, as she did not wish to remain under this particularly melty Sherlock gaze any longer, and for not truly trusting herself at that moment either, she responded.

'Um, Sherlock, thank you for this,' she shook the snacks in her hand and then back up at him.

Walking to the body, she directed, 'Please, continue.'

She watched, as his eyes, still upon hers, continued to do so until he arrived at the cadaver. Nodding his head once, he started upon the bag.

Molly was aware of John entering into the room in the distance, walking closer towards Sherlock. Her focus however, was entirely on the object of her affections, and his crop of hair. _His hair always appeared so curly and well groomed. _She cast a distracted thought.

_Sherlock? Apologising to her?_ She supposed it paid to be angry every once in a while.

He probably deduced that she was angry. It did not seem however, to her, that it was play acting on his part. And the way he was examining Mr. Earl now, seriousness graced upon his defining features, she appreciated too that without her, he would be missing a vital clue this evening.

So whether or not she could decipher his motives, something else, deep inside, told her that he had not lied.


	3. What John was thinking

Chapter Three: What John was thinking (John POV)

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><p>Several matters raced through the ex-military man's mind as he watched his captain enter the room. One of them, was that he had lost the bet with himself. Sherlock, for all his magic tricks, apologised to the lovely Molly, and she seemed almost lost by it.<p>

He had seen the solemn look on his friends face through the glass in the door, and had seen how she reacted to him. He was definitely going to have to help set these two up for dinner together. Molly deserved to be treated at least. How handy that her birthday was coming around soon.

There was something about Molly that Sherlock often seemed protective of. For all his following around of Sherlock, as second-mate of the ship he was not clueless. In fact, quite often, he too was aware of subtleties, but of a different sort to Sherlock. Whereas his mind was not trying to break open a case, it was still functioning enough to maintain interest in living, and in life.

Having been discharged from military service, it was hard not to find worth in living. It was damned near hard not to keep going. When he met Sherlock that day so long ago now, all the mundane days in London he had experienced before that seemed to wither away into distant memory. The gun he kept in the drawer next to his desk, called at him like a dangerous singing siren. He was torn between taking his own life from the deception of normal living, and using it again some how, some way, in service. Before Sherlock, he was floundering in a fog of boredom and scarred by living nightmares of tending to his injured colleagues. He had created for himself an invisible disability. One where he needed something physical to stand upon, to lean on, to take the weight of the daily burden of having survived, and he force all his pain on one uninjured leg. He did feel that pain. He did need the support of that stick. Sherlock destroyed all of that within 48 hours of meeting him.

What Sherlock did for him, he could not thank enough, but Sherlock never pointed it out and never took credit for it. He loved Sherlock, as friend, as an elder brother. He knew he should not look to the man, as though he was his saviour, but he hated to think what his life would have been like had he not run into Stamford that day.

That day, nearly a lifetime now, he remembered Molly bringing coffee to Captain Holmes. It was an odd thing. He seem to strum her as though a guitar, putting it back down again as though it could never be as good enough as the Strad. An absent minded thing, as Sherlock would probably play the guitar quite well given his musical talent. Except, because he probably only ever had those particular string and bow type lessons in his life, the guitar may never have been introduced as an option.

John needed to make the guitar a more appealing instrument.

She stood there, taking in his comments about her lipstick having been removed and her lips looking too small. She was besotted with him. He knew her hesitation was really due to nerves around the great man. Not to mention, that she was probably on edge every time he was around simply because she never knew what remark Sherlock would throw away next.

Sherlock was a deep well. If anything, where people he truly cared for or took interest in mattered, he was nothing if not subtle of his own feelings. His own experience with his psychosomatic limp was as excellent an example as any of Sherlock's subtlety. Perhaps regarding Molly in any other way would compromise something for him. Perhaps where Molly was concerned, it would compromise his independence.

The only other time Sherlock became truly defensive, as far as he could recall, was one occasion involving Mrs. Hudson being under threat.

He knew the cunning of his friend. Sherlock never gave the game away even in his explanations, there would always be something else going on behind the scenes, in that mind of his, the wheels were always turning. He was never without feeling, despite appearing that way. An air of strength and façade of control, like every military captain he knew, cool under every pressure. Sherlock only became rattled when he could not think fast enough to process the puzzle in front of him, which by most laypersons speeds, was fast enough.

Sherlock was the most lateral thinking, simultaneously decrypting and deciphering, all the while logically determining, every situation at once, person he knew. Being a genius could not be easy. Needing people around him to realise that, was a necessity.

He felt much the same way, on a different level. He needed the company and the action, he needed people to realise that his life in the war, and what happened there, was something he did not need want to delve into. He just wanted to be. Like Sherlock, just wanted to 'be'.

Sherlock allowed John a new life and different sort of space.

As he stood there now in the mortuary, watching Sherlock stare intently into Molly's eyes before heading over to the body, he realised something about his friend. Sherlock kept Molly at a distance for a reason. She was his secret. His amusing little secret. Without her, he would have no peace of mind.

It possibly explained a few things. His heightened behaviour every time they were headed to lab or the morgue. Or when he would fix up his coat and scarf so that he was presentable, or even just then, running out the cab with speed and pit-stopping at the vending machine for snacks. Suddenly, as though a switch had been flicked on in his mind, it seemed as though Sherlock's actions were not only that of a madman on a hunt for answers with regards a new case, but they were in fact subtle behavioural changes related to the promise of seeing his lovely pathologist.

As his second-mate, was he only now, aware of this?

He did not know why he was referring to himself as his second-mate, but after all this talk of buried treasure that evening together with his earlier thoughts of Captain Sherlock and a vague memory of Mycroft speaking of Sherlock's childhood desire to be a pirate when he grew up, things felt more like they were in a crazy pirate adventure at the moment than usual, and as such, he felt very much like the second-mate.

Thinking of it, Sherlock often appeared more like a boundary pushing pirate half the time than a consulting-detective. He certainly had more mystery and romanticism about him, than your average DI. The deer-stalker suddenly seemed less apt as an icon of his, than a bandana. There were times, when he could swear, the glint in his eyes, seemed cheekier and daring, much like a swashbuckler.

Standing in the room now, brought back by the words Sherlock uttered next, he could see something shift in the room between Molly and Sherlock. Sherlock seemed calmer, yet still excited.

'See, here,' he said, encouraging Molly to take a look. 'Right..there.'

Sherlock was pointing to what could be described as an interlocking V, marked with a star and a key, tattooed nearly two by two centimetres, just under the left shoulder blade of Mr. Earl.

Molly studiously peered at the marking. Questions appeared to cross her features, but were interrupted by Sherlock.

'Exactly,' he simply said. 'They were not there before were they? This is the first time you are seeing these marks.'

Walking over to the two of them, and also peering down at the tattoo that Sherlock was referring to, the question begged to be asked.

'How did it get there then?' he asked him. Molly looked from the tattoo, to John, back to Sherlock waiting.

Sherlock's response was the only one he ever gave.

That famous smile which looked like the cat that had caught the canary.


	4. The cat and his canary

_Author's comments: Thank you everyone for your reviews, story alerting, and fav'ing. I hope this keeps you interested. Exams creeping up again, so will do my best to keep going with this. Still building that angst and drama..Sorry about OOC sherlock, again so hard to write him, and I hope to have more romance soon..._

_Much love and respect ~_

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><p><strong>Chapter 4: The cat and his canary<strong> (Sherlock's POV)

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><p>The last three weeks had been a bit of a whirlwind for him. This case first reared its ugly little head when Mycroft came to visit him which in his relative time and space, seemed so long ago now as he had been non-stop deducing since then.<p>

It was studying Molly's lips whilst he patiently waited for her response, that for some reason revoked images of her wearing red lipstick, which in turn caused him to flash to some recent document, with a red crest and upon that two interlocking V's with a key and star in gold upon it. The document was that handed to him by Mycroft for his urgent consideration.

Naturally, he pushed it away after a mere glance in its direction, but continued to allow his brother at the time, the chance to ramble on in that self-important manner that he usually did.

As he recalled the conversation now, disappearing temporarily away John and Molly, back into that scene he could hear his brother's voice play out infront of him.

'Sherlock, please, this is the long lost treasure of Her Majesty's Jewels. We had been following this shadow group now for the last year, after it came to light that one of the sons of the founding fathers had been found dead in his apartment on Park Lane. He was caught it seems after having betrayed them for trying to make good the wrong that their group were responsible for. A possible off-shoot of the frère masons. Please, it would be worth your while in reward.'

Mycroft seemed to have been playing down the severity of the situation.

Sherlock had later discovered that there had been several murders earlier that year and that this last one revealed the clue that he was desperately waiting for to confirm his suspicions.

John Earl, the body they now stood in front of, was born to John Graham Earl and Elisabeth Koning, from blood lines that went back as far as the Dutch Royal Family and with connections in history from a time before the French and British had plotted their own course to circumnavigate the globe, and before the Queen's own family became the ruling monarchy of England. At some point in history, there was a connection between the current Royal Family and the Blood line of Koning. History would have it, that a significant portion of the jewels were initially offered as a token for silence in the matter of the affair of a cousin of the Dutch Royal Family with that of the future queen of Russia. Some kind of plot or plan had back-fired to overthrow those in power and as a result, the two love birds who were initially unintentionally responsible for their nation's plans, fled by ship across the seas with the Jewels in tow.

The ship had crashed upon one of the shores of an island at the time, with the lovebirds surviving. They were later discovered by those ships journeying to the island the captains of whom had been offered rewards to find these two and bring them back.

The Dutch Royal, whose name was of the Koning bloodline, had hid these jewels so that they would never be found as part of his future legacy. He discovered during that journey home, his love, the future queen of Russia had been carrying his illegitimate child. He was told in no uncertain terms that he was forbidden to them forever. He discovered that his son was never to be known by all those around him but history likely has it that he was able to meet the young man, and in doing so, revealed a part of his history and the secret of the jewels, so that when absolutely required, they could use it to bring down the world.

Thus, all the consulting-detective required, was the location, given that he had deciphered the story behind the treasure. Why it was of concern to Her Majesty was unclear to him at that point in time, it was possible that there was something more devastating about it that Mycroft was letting on. The location, he had just found clearly upon the body of this member.

If it hadn't been for Molly, he would never have had that mind-trigger.

What he had not yet point out to them, was the other mark noted on the inner aspect of the man's ankle. The words, 'The Rock that Cries' scrawled there.

She was becoming more instrumental to his mind as each day when on. This year alone was incredible. His little lab mouse, she was not to know that of course, but there she was every time, ready for his next request, next experiment. The thing is, Molly Hooper, was not just his little lab mouse now. She was part of the machinery that was Sherlock Holmes. She, together with John, and Mrs. Hudson, made the team that allowed him to keep deducing without there being a significant harmful result to himself. They were almost like the three sides of a triangle, with him standing in the centre. Images of ven-diagrams entered his mind of the dynamic that these people played in his life.

He remembered when he saw her three years ago now. Plain, but pretty in that shy way. She still stumbled about him when he was in the room. Over the years, she had become a little more forthright in herself, and in the last year, had started to point out to him, his frustrating faults where her emotions were concerned, where voicing what were to him logical and valid points, but by society and Molly's standards were unacceptable insults.

He noticed her, the way her eyes would react when he was there, her pupils doing that dilatory dance and how her breath would catch, and her glances could become shy.

She would work so hard to conceal the evident to him. But it was always evident. It was only hidden to her, what was so evident in him. He would be playing the same dance with her over and over. His little mouse. But he cared for her. And it was not for him to reveal his feelings or affections. He could not let such things rule his mind. And he knew he did this.

Every once in a while though, he did internally scream with his own stupidity about how he handled her, and how he could not help doing so. This last year had resorted to his texting her more frequently to ensure there was ever a supply of readiness to help him. It was a slight mystery to himself that the way he secretly felt about her exceeded the manner and appropriateness in the way in which he behaved with her. He often deliberately sabotaged her own plans just to keep her near him.

Molly was the equivalent of his mind temple. Yes, he had one of those too, now, thanks to her. This was the place where inspiration could freely take place and the mind could be quiet. He could argue that John did that, but John did not do that. John, allowed him to go over the process of deduction again, and helped him gleam things over with a fine tooth coomb. John was a different process of thinking. And they were all different to his mind palace where he stored, catalogued, and focused things.

He owed Molly. But he could give her nothing back. He might dare say that sometimes he would wonder, when she was there, whether or not if he had been an ordinary sort of fellow, whether she would have been satisfied with him in the same way she seemed to demonstrate now, and whether he would be satisfactory enough to be still regarded in the same way and be worthy enough a companion.

Truthfully though, so awkward was he, so he had been told, that, logically, it was kinder to avoid, basically remove himself from her equation. To be as far away from her as possible. That is why on more than one occasion that year, he went as long as a few weeks before he saw her again. That was a long-running experiment as much for her as much as it was for him.

It did not work though. Neither did it change matters. It in fact served to worsen it. Absence made her heart grow fonder, and his mind go crazy without her.

Bringing himself back to both Molly and John, he could see her waiting for his response on the matter pertaining to the evidence at hand, following John's own question.

A slow smile crept upon his own lips, as he pulled out his phone to text Mycroft for three tickets whilst asking them to pack up their bags for a trip to the Mascarene Islands, leaving them both curious still and perplexed as ever.

His dear Molly and John, explaining this to them now would easily be done in the twelve hours flying time they still had to go before reaching their destination, the key to the Indian Ocean, the Island of Paradise.

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><p><em>please forgive any mistakes, do lemme know. I hope my story doesn't disappear again. If it does, it's probably a mystery waiting to be solved and maybe it's fate telling me to step back...the wheel being completely off the wagon now lol..;)<em>


	5. The flight of a lifetime

_**This is one of those naughty updates, where I haven't re-read through the submission. **_

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><p><strong>Chapter 5: The trip of a lifetime<strong>

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><p>Molly was a little surprised that she was roped into this impromptu journey. Thanks to Mycroft, they were flying first class in the complete sense of the word. Yes, indeed, via private jet. She found herself in the luxurious restroom of the aircraft staring at her own reflection in the large mirror there. Larger than she had ever seen before on a plane anyway. She started her internal dialogue again once more.<p>

_So Sherlock thinks that the treasure is somewhere to be found on this island. _Sherlock had explained everything.

_And he wanted me to come along. Why exactly? _Molly's pursed lips altered into part of an exasperated sigh.

_And why did I say I would go along?_

She screwed up her face. Trying to think of why she agreed to this request. It may have had something to do with the way he had gazed into her eyes possibly in the morgue the night before. It may also have had to do with his usual persuasive techniques. Perhaps she was fascinated about how he actually did solve cases. She always saw him in the middle of cases, never how it came to conclusion. How the hard work she involved herself in for him won him the success.

Sherlock, who had barely needed to say more to her other than, 'Would you like to take a trip to a warmer climate?'

She stared at herself again and considered the truth of the matter. All the above, but additionally, maybe it was because…

_Because I'm in love with the man? It's not like I had anyone who could cover my shifts at Bart's… at the first request to drop everything to go to a beautiful island and…_

Molly's thoughts trailed off. Molly was told in no uncertain terms that she was required to help with the investigation by Sherlock, and that Mycroft had already sorted cover issues with Stamford. Mycroft was a scary sort of man. An equally mysterious figure as his younger brother but someone who you would not want to disappoint where specific requests were made, in view of his profession.

She was having difficulty with one thing. Her heart. It wavered and played and strummed a painful tune that did not leave her in any functional state. She was just heart broken at what she saw was a one-sided unrequited love. There was nothing to requite. She knew that, but every time she recalled his visits, his closeness to her, where he should have stood back, or moments where she accidentally found his fingers brushing against hers, her heart beat faster, a ghostly tingle was left behind, a static shadow of his presence.

_I'm flying to a beautiful island…with Sherlock…I know it's a serious investigation…but…maybe…I could…tease my way…into his heart?..._

A slow mischievous smile crossed her face. She was unable to help her constant 180 degree flips between her supposed purpose for the trip and what she could do with the opportunity in front of her. It was not like she was a naughty girl. She was not. But sometimes, something drastic had to be done, to save her own heart if anything. This was indeed the most out of character thing she could hope to do. The most bold. She had been flitting between these dilemmas since she had been told to pack for a hot climate. She had adequately packed for the possibility of trekking and for casual and even sensual dinner wear. She had the good sense to at least pack something like that. She did not however have the good sense to pack a bikini or any swimwear. How was she to know that hot climate included island?

On touchdown, she would have to look into that.

She thought about their intended destination. This would no doubt be the trip of a lifetime. Well, especially, since she had never ventured beyond Britain. Not to mention of course it being with the crush of her life. She found herself starting on a pep talk. It was difficult to pep-talk given that she felt she was not entirely alone, but the hum of the engines was enough for her to voice her feelings out loud.

'Oh wow Molly, Mauritius! How beautiful, how gorgeous. Do you realise how lucky you are? You don't even have to be stuck in a boring lab or deathly morgue or a freezing cold snowy London!' She paused, silently talking to Sherlock. 'This is better than dinner.'

She pulled out a face wipe to remove the grime-like feeling of aircraft air and continued to herself.

'What could he possibly expect me to do? Identify more bodies? I cannot for the life of me see why I've been asked to come on this expedition. Nevermind. If needs be I'll do the dutiful. But I can certainly have some fun whilst I'm at it. Surely?'

She continued to smile at her reflection.

_The sun would be great for my skin colour. _

She touched her pale, almost withered skin, a wistful look crossing her eyes.

_And whether he cared about that or not, it is high time that I look after myself. Maybe enjoy the company of other people._

She became serious again.

Taking out her hairbrush, she began to straighten out her chesnut hair before tying it into a straight but lose ponytail. She washed her sallow face, and applied a little replenishing night cream to it. It was after all a night flight, and she was nearly 4 hours into the journey. At this altitude, the air was not only thin, but dry and artificial. Hydration alone was not satisfactory. She applied a little hand cream, lip balm, and decided that she would start on _Operation Molly-gets-Sherlock _(she could think of no better name), as soon as they touched down.

She zipped up her carry bag, and before leaving the restroom, wrapped her shawl snugly around her shoulders.

As she ventured slowly step by step back to her seat, slightly renewed, she observed the scene before her.

Dr. John Watson was clearly deep in conversation with the air hostess in the distance. He glanced her way momentarily, nodded a smile in her direction, before returning back to his conversation at hand. In the seat across the aisle from hers was the consulting-detective, hunched over several papers strewn across the table before him.

The aircraft reminded her of that film, Sabrina – the Harrison Ford version, where he flew her across to that little out of town place in his private jet.

Sherlock barely seemed to notice her return, compared to John. She knew better than that though. One could never really know with Sherlock. He was either always in his mind completely oblivious, or he was entirely focused whilst some part of him was peripherally aware of his environment.

Sherlock was notorious for his zoning out. She had seen it once or twice, when she visited him at 221B to drop off some results. John accepted it from her on her behalf at the time as he was unreachable during those moments.

The one time she could relate that to anything she had seen before was in a fictional character from a TV show she used to be highly obsessed with. She could possibly argue that it may well have driven her to be the pathologist she was currently. It was the most peculiar thing. Sherlock Holmes reminded her of Fox Mulder from the X-files, when he would lose himself completely in the effort to find his sister, believing in aliens and all kinds of government conspiracy. Scully was the one who brought him back. Pulled him to his feet. Was his constant. Was his connection back to reality. Molly could not say that she fit that criteria for Sherlock, and to be truthful, these were only characters from a TV show, though her obsession with it may have had some role to play with her applying to medical school in the first place. That, and the support she found from her father to pursue a career in that direction.

Molly smiled sadly for brief moment, as she paused beside him, before reaching out to the armrest of her own seat. Placing her carry back down, in the corner, she was only to glad to sit down again herself. She located her blanket and drew it over her. She peaked out from the corner of her eyelashes at his profile.

She could see that near blank yet focused expression upon his face, beautiful locks of obsidian framing alabaster skin, his grey eyes almost too clear to be grey.

Her heart twanged.

How could he be so perfect and she so unworthy?

She realised that he had so unexpectedly exposed what was underneath. She knew, she had to find a different direction. She would either try to fight for him when they landed, or she would resign from Bart's on their return if she failed. What more could she do? It was a fair plan in her mind.

Pulling up the blanket higher, headphones on, she turned away from him to look towards the small window. Moving closer to the 'porthole', she covered a part of her face and her ears as she stretched out her legs more fully.

She focused on the view outside.

It was indeed breath-taking. So high up above the earth were they that the universe almost seemed touchable. Flying by night was almost soothing, with a million and one stars twinkling a hello in her direction. The moon was clearly gliding along with them on their journey. She witnessed the silvery outline bathing the clouds interspersed with a near indescribable reflection in the ocean below. She thought ruefully that it must have been the Mediterranean Sea.

Why did it always appear as though the world was a different place from above?

She closed her eyes, imprinting the recent visual dynamic upon her memory. Her breathing began to slow, her heart beating to the rhythm of a Corinne Bailey lullaby. Enchanted by her soothing voice, she let herself drift away into sleep as the moonlight bathed her small form.

* * *

><p>From the corner of his ice coloured eyes, he had no doubt been aware of her. Acutely aware of a princess now bathed in silver.<p>

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><p><em><strong>Can I just say, if any of you have not done so yet, please have a look at two really great youtube videos. Nope not done by me. If only.<strong>_

_**1. 'Beautiful Mess – Molly' by Artsychick181 and**_

_**2. Sherlock and Molly – Love the way you lie by EllenRepublicVideos. **_

_**They are excellent and bloody inspiring. Lol. Okay, sorry for the cheese. Let me know what you think of those and let me know how you find this update - ;) **_

_**Aaaaaa….so long as there is angst and heartbreak…if it wasn't three in the morning, I would be writing nonstop right now. Revision revision.**_


	6. Turbulence

Chapter 6: Turbulence

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><p>Acutely aware of a princess now bathed in silver.<p>

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><p>The Sherlock statuesque-like state had been thus, for long enough. He had spent the previous hours staring at the photographs, documents, maps and layout of the case and island. To what could have been to anyone a random mess spewed out across the table, including the spare passenger seats near and infront of him, was really Sherlock's 'genius amongst the clutter'.<p>

John had gotten up and left him to it the moment he had stopped in mid-phrase at some point during their conversation when Molly had gone to the restroom.

Essentially, Sherlock was zoned out on everything but whatever it was his mind palace was helping him decrypt.

John decided that his efforts not be wasted any further on a somewhat zombie-like Holmes and proceeded to engage in a somewhat flirtatious conversation with a rather enticing air hostess. Mycroft certainly knew how to travel in style with beautiful people when he wanted to.

Molly was all asleep in the seat across the aisle from information-stoned Sherlock, and that picture had barely changed for all of nearly 45 minutes.

What seemed like stillness to John however was in fact a lot more intense for Molly and Sherlock. Whilst she was engaged in a deeply pleasurable dream, and Sherlock had yet to break a little piece of news to his team. Although he knew exactly what needed to be done and where he needed to go he was now going to have to fess up. He thought it important at the time to omit a vital piece of information prior to their boarding the aircraft.

It was at this moment that Sherlock, made his re-entrance into the land of the living, all the pieces in place.

John suddenly turned from the beauty in his arms, to the sound of Sherlock's voice that seemed to almost 're-volumise' from a period of muteness, as though switched up by a television remote control.

'…..there on the tip of the south west coast..' he finished off at John, arms raised to the air, as though he had not just spent the near part of an hour, in some time lapse vortex or where the world had not continued to spin in his absence.

Sherlock stared straight ahead at John, who was still with beautiful company. Turning to the lady, he made a few apologies and returned back to the seat next to his Captain.

Crossing his hands together, and resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward towards Sherlock, gesturing, he asked, '…what on the tip of the south west coast?'.

Surprised and shaking his head in dismay or, one could argue, as though to clear away the cobwebs, Sherlock replied, 'Weren't you paying attention John?'

'Nevermind,' the ever-patient John responded. Blue eyes locked onto ice.

'Hmm. Quite.'

Those ice-eyes left John's momentarily, to land upon the sleeping form of Molly on his left, an almost caressing gaze apparent in them, something that the second-mate noted.

'I need to tell her something,' his deep caramel voice spoke to anyone listening.

John's right eyebrow crept up towards his hairline slowly. This was new, he thought to himself. He considered the potentially loaded message in that one line.

Almost as though it had not been heard the way John had thought it was said, Sherlock continued, 'About the case and her role in it. I mean.'

_Was Sherlock stuttering? _John wondered.

'Of course,' John nodded along. He waited.

'John, I need you to pretend to be Molly's brother.' He said quickly. And then continued to explain the omission to at least one member of his team before the other was awake enough to hear it.

All the while, throughout his long non-stop speech, both John's eyebrows raised to his hairline, and if they could have gone further, there would have been no stopping them.

* * *

><p>Molly was dreaming a dream she never wanted to wake up from. There she was, in her room, having a prolonged text chat with Sherlock, the like she had never had before. For some reason, he was unusually chatty.<p>

'Meow'- her phone alerted her again.

_No Molly, I am not Einstein. – SH_

She found herself laughing and flirting back.

_Oh Sherlock, Einstein suits you as a term of endearment. For all your complex mathematical and scientific deductions, I must have been moved enough to have confused the two of you. Are you sure you aren't related? – MH_

She teased.

_Well, Miss Hooper, I suppose I should be flattered then – SH_

_Yes Einstein – MH_

In Molly's dream, it seemed almost liked a long time had passed before she received another text from him.

_Molly, I have something to tell you – SH_

Her heart was racing furiously.

_What Sherlock, you can tell me anything – MH_

A long pause again. She waited.

_You mean more to me than Einstein and all his mathematical deductions – SH_

Molly felt the heat of the flush upon her face almost as if it was real.

In her dream sequence, she tried to text back, but could no longer find that phone, and but her panic abated when on turning around, to her surprise, she hit a solid form, square in the chest.

'Oops.' She squeaked. It was him. 'Wow that was fast.'

'Not fast enough,' his rich voice reverberated above her. Slowly poking her head up from under his chin, she looked at him.

'Were you aiming for faster than the speed of light?' she asked him, aware of how cheesy she sounded.

He groaned, a smirk clearly visible upon his gorgeous face.

'You wish,' he responded, posture still tall and firm, head ever so poised, only his line of sight betraying his intentions and the firm left arm now gripping her to him ever tightly.

Everytime he spoke, she was tickled with his deep voice reverberating not only through him but through to her own chest.

'I do wish,' she said shyly. Her heart was pounding in her chest she could barely breath or speak with the sheer pressure of swirly good feelings inside her. She thought she would burst.

Still steeling himself, as though superman, he whispered softly whilst longingly keeping her big brown eyes locked with his, 'What do you wish?'

Her eyes told him. Staring at his plump, shapely lips, she could not fight her resistance any longer. Tentatively, her left index finger rose up to trace the outline of what she saw as perfection upon this man she loved.

His breathing stilled. His posture maintained.

Slowly, on tiptoe, she crawled up towards him, drawing ever so closely her fingers still upon his lips whilst her other free hand reached up to run her hands through what she could only describe as heavenly hair. She could feel his penetrating stare upon her, self-consciousness seeping into her pores.

'This,' she whispered back, '..you.'

And whilst she knew this was not real, it would be her only chance ever to do what she craved and so she kissed him, chastely upon his ever so sweet, and soft lips. They were warm but firm. Opened slightly, he slowly kissed her back and tightening his left arm around her waist, his right hand now perfectly cupping her face.

Other emotions she did not realise were there, welled up inside of her. She pulled back, and touched her own face, tears appearing to have traced it. She was crying and did not understand why. She peered at her wet fingers.

Looking up from her hands she knew he had gone before she saw the empty space before her.

And the tears welled up again. Unable to help herself, she began to cry uncontrollably. Knowing it was all a dream but yet still wishing it was not.

She felt smaller arms around her shoulder, and a sweeter voice try to console her. It was her mother, who had passed away from breast cancer a few years ago.

'There there child. You will find that love you seek. Believe in yourself. I do.'

Her mother's reassuring face stared into hers and with a jump, she woke up with a start.

* * *

><p>'Molly,' John called her. 'Seatbelts, it's a bit of turbulence we're running right through.'<p>

_Turbulence indeed._ She wanted to scream angrily. She was a little sore from the experience she had had, a little too vivid for her liking.

What was she to do, having shared such an intimate moment with the man she so loved, in a false reality, who sat only a few centimetres away. The expression in her face and ever so present in her eyes, couldn't help but give it all away.

If she could have hidden it, she would have. However, things were unfashionably raw. Seeing her deceased mother was the creamy icing on the painful cake. _Try deduce this one hotshot_ she offered the ether bitterly.

Sherlock had witnessed her sleeping form. He saw it change from calm and even, with possibly even a little smile, to strained and tense before a tear and a whimper seem to escape from her.

_Dreams, were the exact sort of things to do that_. Sherlock did not dream. He postulated, and suffered insomnia, until his mind went blank from his body's surrendering to nature's requirements.

He wished he could know what the specifics of her dreaming involved. No, that was not a skill he had yet acquired or that he could even derive from external markers. Yes it seemed as though her dream was initially pleasurable, but it also then became the opposite, and warranted the state Molly was now in having woken up from the miserable air-craft plunging pockets of air they were to ride until things settled.

Now approximately 8 hours into their journey, Sherlock had already informed John of the significant essentials of their plan, and was yet to drop Molly in it too. Somehow she had agreed to join them back in London, and had gone along with his suggestions that they should see the rest of the case through together. Molly wholeheartedly agreed without too many questions, being ever innocent and naïve about her use, and possibly seeing it as a vacation. Which it was, in a way for her, that was part of the reason for his inviting her along, it was better than any dinner he could really offer her.

But he knew, she would possibly be angry with him at his next quite serious request of her. Nevertheless, he was going to have to address it at some point.

* * *

><p>John was still sitting across from him, and for the moment they were all seat-belted in thanks to the current disturbance. Whether to break it to her now, or to break it to her later, that was the matter.<p>

John knew there was serious chance that Molly might never speak to Sherlock again. _But then again, _he thought, what did he really know about these two. Sherlock had already apologised, and been acting un-Sherlock like for a while now. Molly, for all her sweetness, did really need to be treated a bit better, and he hadn't forgotten that dinner he owed his betting self.

_No, with Sherlock and Molly, there was some tension building up in the air, but it was the sort of tension akin to carbon monoxide poisoning._ You could neither see it, nor smell it, nor deal with it until it was too late. Before you knew it, you were moving in slow motion, falling as sleep in your own death bed. A nasty analogy, except, there was at times something a little nasty about unspoken truths.

John was beginning to see the signs of potential danger before they did. He just needed an experiment to prove his findings.

When Sherlock had 'come to' earlier, the grand plan had been unfolded before him. He had been informed that their undertaking was not known to anyone but Mycroft and that those in the need to know, were acutely aware of the value of their lives. They were flying under false pretences, that neither the British Government could be aware of, nor the Mauritian Government. True, they were not to do anything to disturb the peace. But they did need to get in, get the stuff, and get out as quickly as was possible, without alerting anyone.

Yes, the utmost tact and sensitivity would be required, and hence, going undercover was the way forward. It was a honeymoon destination after all.

And so John's forehead was aching from much eyebrow stretching. Sherlock had even shown him the rings.

He could sense the shift in Sherlock, that pressing urge of his to race out his words and just blurt it all out there and then. But, he was holding back. It was not in John's nature to let his friends suffer, and so the military man in him was going to have to step in and help with the damage control, which the physician too saw as his duty.

He began tentatively.

'How are you feeling Molly,' he offered friendly, 'did you manage a little rest?'

'Thank you John,' she sighed. 'A little longer maybe would have been great.'

And he saw a glaze pass over her features for a split second. Perhaps after turbulence and dinner, they could take care of the rest of the team debrief.

John looked at Sherlock. An invisible understanding passed between them that now was still not the time. Ever aware of it ticking, they only had another 4 hours to break it to her, before it could be considered way past significantly delayed, certainly as far as acceptable omissions were concerned.

Molly would need to engage in this role for her Queen and country. They had to break it to her that her left hand was to carry the usual symbolic ring. They had to break it to her that she was to play the role of Sherlock's fiancé soon to be his wife. Just until the case was over. It was not intended to be anything other than an innocent but important distraction to those watching.

The men however were not sure how she would take to her newly proposed role.

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><p><em>(not the happiest bunny me, as usual wanted to write a much longer chapter, usually normally do, with other fanfics. But going slow mo, me. I keep wanting to go full force into a very unlike, OOC, romance. lol...it is sorta AU ish anyway right? Anyway, sorry for those of you who may be crying after my dream sequence...(currently life revision and other matters occupying my time...i completely need to catch up with all the other fanfic out there...some good stuff I see)<em>

_Quote from someone to me earlier...think it speaks of Sherlolly?:_

_"Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love." Neil gaiman_


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